


One More Round

by Ceebee



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Smut, Pre-Canon, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:31:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4541661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceebee/pseuds/Ceebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the kinkmeme - Ben/Jack. Before either of them were married, they had a thing together. Bonus for some bad men trying to attack Ben because of his work, Jack beating them up (and getting really beat up in the process). And then desperate I'm-so-glad-you're-alive sex.</p><p>
  <i>Ben knew it couldn't last, but sometimes he hoped that it would.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Round

**Author's Note:**

> Orignal prompt _[here](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=1325525#cmt1325525)_
> 
> I'm silly and didn't even realise there was a minor character fic fest happening when I wrote this, but there is and it's awesome, and if you wanna take part you should check out [this post](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/3577.html?thread=7663353#cmt7663353!) :D

Ben knew it couldn’t last; he saw it in the harsh lines of Jack’s body, the heavy thrust of his weight, his grace when he lurched into action. In the rivulets of blood that had dried by the time Ben found them, embedded in the creases of Jack’s skin. It couldn’t last because the two of them were far too similar, the only difference being that it was ink that stained Ben’s hands after a fight.

They were a journalist and a boxer and their most frequent arguments were over who could pack the biggest punch. 

(Jack dug his knuckles into Ben’s stomach or lower back, and bit against his neck, filthy, perfect, _I win_. But then Ben traced the words with his forefinger along Jack’s thigh while he shuddered and came undone like the laces on his gloves.)

One day, Ben would meet a girl - someone who would lead him back from the brink rather than urging him closer, who wouldn’t needle at his weak points until he snapped - and Jack would fuck up once, twice, a hundred times. Maybe he’d never get it right, the way he wasn’t getting it right with Ben, the way that they weren’t getting it right together but just kept coming back each day because, fuck, Ben hadn’t met that girl yet and sometimes, _sometimes_ , Jack made him hope he never would.

Today was one of those days. A blow to the stomach could do that - make Ben choke out Jack’s name and hope that there’d never be a time when he didn’t come running.

“Get _off_ me,” he said, first, because calling for Jack was often a last resort at times like these, the word bloody in his mouth. “Get the fuck _away_.”

He swung his hand and clipped the guy who had him against the wall of the alleyway, slapped him in the mouth hard enough to see his lip bleed from where it mashed against his teeth. It earned him another breath-stealing punch that left him doubled over and wheezing. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew he’d had this coming for weeks, ever since the whisper in his ear about dirty money that had wound up filtering down into his pen and onto the page. The story had been printed yesterday, seventh page news, not even _big_ , but enough to land Ben here, panting and losing losing _losing_.

“Jack,” he gasped as an open-palmed collision with his ear made it ring. He drove the heel of his hand, aimless, desperate, and felt it miss. “ _Jack_ , get here, you _fucker_ ,” he rasped at his own knees, still bent over. A blow to his back sent him crumpling to the floor, and he could only throw his arms over his head in anticipation of the kicking, dirt on his tongue, a chant building in his throat: _Jack. Jack, Jack, Jack._

They’d been at Josie’s, and Jack had been flirting - with her, trying to wheedle free drinks, trying to prove something with that bruised smile of his - at the same time as wandering his fingers up Ben’s spine. A slight pressure, a delicacy. Ben had paid because Ben always paid, even though he knew it made Jack mad, and that he’d probably find something to take it out on later. A plate that he couldn’t afford to replace, shattered on the kitchen floor. A swing so hard that his knuckle fractured against the punching bag. A kiss that was mostly bite, that was mostly _why do you do this to me?_ As if, every time Ben got out his godforsaken wallet, he was trying to tell Jack that he wasn’t good enough, when really he was just trying to keep them both on their feet. It was hard when, together, they were always begging for just one more round. 

Another drink, another turn at the ring, another goddamn story.

Jack’s fingers faltered in their journey, then fell away completely. He scowled, hunched over his glass, while Ben fished for whatever dollars he had left. Ben sighed, loud enough for Jack to hear, and Jack just retreated further, the back of his neck flushing red. Ben touched him there, briefly, and left the money on the bar.

“You coming?” he asked. Jack toyed with his glass, spinning it on its base. He shook his head, with that frown still on his face, carving a deep furrow between his brows. Ben’s eyes were drawn to his left temple where there was a cut that was just beginning to scab over. It twitched as Jack fought to keep his expression under control, a subtle tick that he’d had as long as Ben had known him. Ben leant close on the pretense of checking he’d left the right amount of cash and brushed a kiss to that spot, that jumping nerve. “See you later,” he said. 

Jack grunted, then coughed, then seemed to wrench the word up from something sticky inside his chest: “Yeah.”

It was as Ben stepped outside that they grabbed him; one hand in his hair, the other around his mouth. His heels skidded along the ground as he struggled, caught off guard, panic jarring through his body. His glasses fell from his face and he heard one of the lenses crack.

After that, when they towed him down the street, the whole thing was silent apart from the drag of Ben’s shoes through the grit, and the rough, whining pants of air that fought through the hand over his face.

Ben took it as a sign that he was good at his job - journalists only got in trouble if they were onto something, right? There was probably more to the story, he realised, when he was tossed into the alley, all the wind knocked out of him. There was more to it, and God help him, if he got out of this he was going to find out what the fuck it was. 

If he got out of this.

Ben wasn’t old. Ben was just starting out, chasing his first break, and fumbling through the early stages of whatever it was he had with Jack. Ben was at the beginning of things. Ben didn’t want to die. 

“Jack,” he croaked. Only one arm over his head, now. His other hand was scrabbling at the ground, reaching towards the mouth of the alley. 

Jack said a lot of shit, sometimes - once he had told Ben, with a straight expression on his face, that he had the Devil in him. Ben had almost cracked a rib trying not to laugh, but he _had_ tried because Jack so obviously thought it was true. Ben more often thought he saw something bright in Jack, something blinding, but it was testament to how fucked up the pair of them were that Ben saw it now - in the moment that Jack stepped into the alley, with anger writ so deep in his face that it made Ben’s stomach turn. 

Jack said a lot of shit, but most of the time he let his fists do the talking. 

Ben pressed himself back against the wall as Jack hauled the guy away from him. He saw his glasses in Jack’s hand, splintering further in his grip. He didn’t let go of them when he slammed his fist into the guy’s face, into his chest, his ribs, his face, his face, his face. 

It took a few tries for Ben to claw his way back to his feet. He felt dizzy, all the air beat from his lungs, and the steps he took were shaky but he damn well took them, stretching out his hand until it landed on Jack’s shoulder. He could feel the meat of his muscle, there, feel it shift under his fingers as Jack drew back his fist.

“Can you afford to buy me new glasses, then?” he asked, before Jack could follow through. The guy was sagging in Jack’s grip on his shirt, blood coating his nose and mouth, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t gotten in a few hits, too. The cuts on Jack’s face had reopened and Ben knew that when he pulled off his shirt later there would be bruises forming underneath. 

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” Jack said. His voice was harsh and his hand was frozen in the air, ready to swing forward. Ben could _feel_ the momentum, buried in Jack’s shoulder blades. “The stuff you do. It’s gonna kill you.”

“Says the guy who takes beatings for a living,” Ben said, even though, honestly, he couldn’t see either of them lasting long in life. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Jack sighed, deep and long-suffering - the kind of noise wives made at their errant husbands, Ben thought, then wondered _why_ he’d thought it. Jack untangled his fingers from the guy’s shirt and sent him stumbling, then slumping to the floor. Shards of glass dropped from his hands, as well, along with the frames of Ben’s glasses, twisted beyond recognition. 

Ben stooped down and made to look in the guy’s pockets for some kind of ID before Jack grabbed hold of his arm.

“Can’t you just leave it?” he said. “For fuck’s sake, Ben. Don’t go asking for more trouble.”

Ben’s fingers closed around something, he didn’t know what, and he slipped it into his shoe before Jack could notice. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. 

When he was standing again, Jack pulled him close enough to inspect, eyes travelling up and down his body. “You’re bleeding,” he said.

“You too.”

They went to Jack’s apartment, Jack’s arm slung around Ben’s shoulders and Ben’s wrapped around Jack’s waist. 

“Thank you,” Ben said, at the front door, because Jack had saved his life even though Ben was so good at making him feel like shit. He crowded close, got Jack backed up against the doorframe, and fit his hands around Jack’s hips. His boxer. His number one fuck up. His favourite goddamn person. 

Jack’s thumb slid beneath Ben’s eye, tracing some invisible line. “You look weird without your glasses.”

“You look weird without my glasses,” Ben shot back and grinned when Jack grinned. 

They kissed and it was bloody, funny, a laughing relief. Jack cradled the back of Ben’s head, more gently than his calloused hands ought to allow, and Ben swiped his tongue over their split lips. They were so gross, he thought. They were gross, and so, so good.

Jack’s apartment was rundown and dirty; Ben had to kick clothes out of the way, had to ignore the cluttered sink and the fragments of china that littered the floor, cascading outwards from wherever Jack had dropped a plate or thrown a mug in frustration. He kept his hands flat on Jack’s chest, propelled them both to his bedroom where the bedframe was weighted down with a mess of quilts and blankets, and a thin, fraying mattress. He had to ignore the stains from all the times Jack came home to bleed out. 

It was easy, tonight. Jack’s hands were wandering, his gaze hungry. He was distraction, embodied. 

“Scared me,” he mumbled against the top of Ben’s head, while his hands travelled down to pick at his belt buckle. Ben’s hands crept beneath Jack’s shirt, scratching lightly at his stomach. His mouth was level with Jack’s jaw and he pressed it there, soft, just a little grazing. 

“Sorry,” he said, and meant it. 

(The paper was burning a hole in his heel. He kicked his shoes off. _I’m sorry. I mean it._ )

Jack finally got Ben’s belt undone, and Ben felt his body gearing into a rush. He stripped, encouraging Jack to do the same by rucking his shirt up even higher. Their movements were feverish and there was something expansive about them, too - their bodies filled the available space, pressed flush, fumbling, grappling. 

“Do you--?” Ben started, because he usually asked, because Jack could never decide what felt best, what he wanted most. But, before he could finish the question, Jack was reaching behind himself, dry fingers pressing between his ass cheeks. A noise from the back of Ben’s throat, helplessly pleased, as heat dropped low in his belly. He dug his fingertips into a bruise that was blooming across the ridge of Jack’s right pectoral, the colour edging close to his nipple, and Jack hissed, head falling back. Ben felt his own body aching. He knew he couldn’t be doing all the heavy lifting - not tonight.

Jack didn’t need telling. There had been so many times when Ben had pushed him back onto the bed after a fight, told him not to move because moving fucking _hurt_. 

Jack understood. Jack steered him. Jack pressed him into the mattress with one hand on the centre of his chest, with one kiss that was slow and rough at the same time. 

Ben thought he was being punished, maybe, for almost getting himself killed. They did that a lot, these days: punished each other for stepping too close to the edge, even though they were both experts at pushing. 

He snatched lube from the floor beside the bed and thrust it into Jack’s hand, even while Jack sucked on the inside of his own cheeks, collecting saliva to spit onto Ben’s cock. 

“Ugh, no,” Ben said, reaching up to pinch one of Jack’s nipples, hard. Jack smirked and wrapped his hand around Ben’s cock, smearing his saliva up to the head, and Jack was a mothafucker, but it still felt good enough to buck up into. “Use the lube, dickhead.”

“That’s for me,” Jack said, and Ben swore under his breath when Jack squirted it onto his fingers and then started to open himself up with them, for real this time, probing at his hole, throat working around noises that he kept biting back at the last second. 

Ben couldn’t tear his eyes away.

When Jack lowered himself, angling Ben’s cock so he sank deep inside, Ben sucked in a breath through his teeth. There were grazes on his hips from where he’d been thrown to the ground and he could feel where his skin was starting to swell in places, or else was pulled painfully taught and bloody. Jack went still for a moment, settling himself, running his fingers carefully over where it hurt most.

Eventually, Ben gave an impatient jerk and Jack’s eyes rolled back, just for a second. “C’mon, big guy. Get a move on.”

Jack growled and it should have been hilarious, and it _was_ , but it was also...something else. 

(Possessive. Mine, mine, mine, _yours_. Ben knew this couldn’t last, but sometimes, _sometimes_...)

“You need. To start. Being. More. Careful.” Jack moved in time with his words, levering himself up with his palms braced against Ben’s ribs, then dropping back down. A constant wave, his whole body rolling. If he hadn’t been a boxer, Ben thought, he could’ve danced. 

“I will if you will," Ben said on an exhale, and Jack bared his teeth, leant close, scraped them along Ben’s sternum. It prickled, a burning line, and one day Ben wouldn’t have this - one day it wouldn’t hurt so bad, and that would just make it a different kind of good. “I’m sorry,” he said, not entirely sure what he was apologising for, this time. Maybe for believing they were over before they could even really start. Maybe for getting jumped by a maniac outside a bar. Maybe for making Jack worry and for always, always worrying about Jack. 

Jack was grinding down, filling himself up, his cock trapped between them, and Ben clutched at his back. It was like this every time: they clung together until they fell apart.

Ben came first, and it writhed through him, through his wrecked limbs and torso. He felt it skitter up his spine until it was trembling in his _teeth_ , which he clamped down over Jack’s shoulder. Jack groaned, rutted a few more times against Ben’s stomach, and then the space between them went slick. Ben tasted sweat and blood, and he fisted his hand in Jack’s hair, holding tight when he started to jerk through the aftershocks with soft grunts. 

He contemplated staying the night. Jack even seemed to want him to, his hands falling heavy everywhere they could reach. But, in the end, Ben just pressed kisses to his palms and got out of the bed so he could get dressed.

He checked the inside of his shoe twice before he put it on, making sure the paper - whatever the hell it was, whatever the hell it could tell him - was still there. 

Ben had a story to write. Jack’s gaze followed him from the room.


End file.
